Magic Hands
by Darkling Blue
Summary: HarryDraco story... that means slash.


**Title:** Magic Hands  
**Author:** Kelly Nicola (livejournal username: wolfsage)  
**Fandom:** Harry Potter  
**Pairing:** Draco/Harry  
**Rating:** R  
**Words:** 2360  
**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction. All things relating to Harry Potter belong to J.K.Rowling. No money is being made by me.  
**Notes:** Written as an 18th birthday present for my friend, Teresa. She wanted Harry/Draco, and so she got Harry/Draco. This is the first I've written in Harry Potter, though I have read a lot. I may continue in the same 'verse, but no promises. Read over by Mey (livejournal username: masocisticmey), who helped me avoid many embarrassing spelling errors. Also, I learned that butterbeer is served both hot _and_ cold. Oh, and **no OOTP spoilers whatsoever.**  
  
_"In this state of mind, everything seems so much more sensual and deliberate."_  
  


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Draco stood in the hot darkness, hands on his hips as he looked around haughtily. Light filtered in through the mismatched wooden planks of the walls, and a window, nearly opaque with dust, let in enough sunlight to give the shed a dim yellowish light. 

"What a dump," he commented, stepping inside carefully so as to not get dust on his Quidditch uniform. The task was nearly impossible, however, as stands of old brooms, shelves of unused quidditch equipment, and various other knick-knacks crowded the fairly small area, all covered in a thick layer of dust. Even the air was dusty, specks twirled in the slants of light from the walls. 

Harry pushed past Draco into the shed, shoulder brushing shoulder roughly. "Let's just get this over with. It's abominably hot in here." 

He walks through the shed, sizing it up. Draco smirked. "Perhaps you should borrow one of these brooms, Potter. Anything would be better than that ancient thing you have now. You really should upgrade at least once a year. Though, I doubt even the newest Nimbus could help you. Your flying skills are atrocious, and a broom can't change that." 

Harry turned and glared at Draco. "Coming from someone who has never beaten me? Ha." Harry clenched his fists angrily, and Draco noted the tense set of his shoulders. "You couldn't beat me if I rode a training broom!" His face, already red from the heat, grew redder still as he stomped up to Draco, standing face to face. Draco also noted that he was breathing heavily, and his green eyes flashed, even in the dim light. 

Smirk still firmly in place, Draco raised an eyebrow and shrugged, turning away from Harry. "Whatever you say, Potter." 

Draco heard Harry stomp off with a growl of frustration, and he smiled, satisfied that he could still control Harry in such a way. 

"It's your fault we have to clean this bloody shed in the first place, _Malfoy_." Harry spat out his rival's name. "Without magic, too! You are the one that picked a fight with me. It was Gryffindor's turn at the pitch, not Slytherin's." 

Draco rolled his eyes in Harry's direction. "I can't help but pick fights with you. You're such a bloody git, I can hardly control myself." Draco paused, wiping his forehead. It really was unbearably hot in the Quidditch shed. 

"Listen to me, you stupid prat! I–" 

Draco cut him off. "Listen, I'm sorry, okay? Let's just do this so we can get out of here." 

Harry paused, shocked. When had Malfoy ever apologized, even insincerely? He looked at Draco suspiciously for a moment, but the boy ignored him, rolling up his sleeves and stooping down to pick up a cloth from the bucket of water. He shot a quick glance at Harry, then began to wipe down some old brooms. Harry walked towards him and stooped to the bucket as well. As he squeezed the water out of his cloth, he watched Draco. He felt distracted by the heat as he watched Draco run his cloth over the dusty brooms. 

Shaking his head, he absently twisted the damp cloth in his hands. Draco turned and looked at him with a glare. "Well? Are you just going to stand there?" 

Harry returned the glare and retreated to the other side of the shed without a word. The heat was quite oppressive as Harry wiped shelves, sweating. He mentally berated himself for looking at Malfoy longer than necessary. _What a prat!_ He thought. What was it about today that was making him so easily distracted? 

He shook his head again, pushing the thought from his mind. _Too hot_, he thought, sighing. His arms and legs were itchy with sweat. 

After about half an hour, Harry realised he needed to wet his cloth again. There's only so long a badly charmed cloth would hold water. He rounded a shelf of flattened Quaffles, and... stopped, shocked. His mouth opened slightly as he took in the sight before him. 

Malfoy had obviously gotten too hot in the stifling shed, and had removed his shirt as well as his socks and shoes. He knelt in his quidditch trousers, polishing a broom with intense concentration. The tip of his tongue stuck out between his teeth as he ran his cloth up and down the handle of one of the school's nicer brooms, an old Nimbus 1000. It shone a warm brown where the cloth touched it, wiping off years of dust. Draco's hand, wrapped in cloth, dripped the broomstick and moved up, before he released his fingers and wiped down in a waving motion. His white-blonde hair was plastered to his head with sweat, and Harry watched a droplet of moisture run from his neckline, around his shoulder, and under his arm. 

Harry shifted his feet and Malfoy looked up. Their gazes locked together, Draco's fierce silver and Harry's vibrant green. Harry stood dumbstruck for what seemed an eternity–or perhaps five seconds–before Draco's face creased in a smile. Harry broke the gaze and stumbled over to the bucket of soapy water, purposefully avoiding Draco's face with his eyes. 

"You look really hot, Potter," Draco said quietly. Harry looked up quickly, again forming eye contact. 

"Ah, wh–what?" he managed, his voice cracking. 

"You're sweating," Draco said simply. With no trace of his normally ever-present smirk. 

Harry remained silent, giving a quick nod. He snuck a glance at Draco again, mentally berating himself as he slid his gaze over surprisingly sculpted muscles and pale, gleaming skin. 

Draco, noticing his regard, inwardly smiled. Not that he had planned this, but it certainly was interesting. 

"I found something while I was cleaning. Let me show you." Draco disappeared for a moment behind some shelves. When he reappeared, he was holding two butterbeers in his hands. They had condensation on them, and the amber liquid looked extremely inviting. Harry looked at Draco in askance , but still didn't trust his voice. 

"Apparently, some other students didn't like the heat in here either. They charmed one of the boxes to stay cold. The spell has worn off a bit, but they are still quite cold." Draco glanced around for a second, then his eyes lit on the back wall. "We'll sit behind some shelves so Madam Hooch doesn't catch us slacking." Draco slid by Harry, and as he did, he reached up with one of the cold butterbeers and touched it to the skin at the back of Harry's neck. 

Harry gasped, his head falling back and his eyes closing with the pleasant shock. Goosepimples raised all along his upper body, and the fine hairs on his arms stood up almost painfully. Draco smiled and took the bottle away, moving to the back of the dim, humid little shed and disappearing. Harry rubbed his hands over his arms, longing for the cold once more. In contrast, his body felt sticky and hot, and his head pounded fiercely in the heat. He wished that he could take off his heavy quidditch shirt, but having long before discarded his robes, he couldn't bring himself to disrobe any more. Sure, he had been shirtless in the company of other boys before, naked even! But somehow, this seemed different. Harry shivered, despite the oppressive heat, and followed Draco. 

The Slytherin was sitting in a cleared spot, his back to the dusty wall. He didn't appear to care anymore about getting dirty. He held up the butterbeer and Harry reluctantly moved forward and took it. He glances around, then took the only other cleared spot—right next to Draco. Close enough, in fact, that their thighs touched. The heat of contact with another person was almost enough to make Harry pull back, but Draco had been surprisingly civil to him and he didn't want to disturb the moment. It was much too hot to argue just now anyway. 

They sat drinking their butterbeers in silence. Harry cast a few sideways glances at Draco before his gaze was caught. Draco didn't say anything though, just took another swig of his drink, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. 

Harry leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, taking a glorious draught. He inwardly thanked Malfoy for the cold drink. 

Perhaps it was the combination of the hot shed, the cold drink, and the strange mood he was in, but soon Harry found himself developing a bit of a problem. His breathing quickened and he held the half-empty bottle to his cheek, willing his half-erection to go away. He stole another glance at the other boy, but Draco luckily hadn't seemed to notice. He shifted uncomfortably and hoped he could just sit still and wait for it to go away. He doubted he would ever hear the end of it if _Malfoy_ caught Harry like this. Harry just wished the other boy wasn't sitting quite so close to him. Surely it wasn't Draco that did this to him, but the position was quite compromising. In his mind's eye, Harry pictured what the two of them must look like. _Two young boys alone together, both sweating profusely and one shirtless. Yes, shirtless, with a flat hard stomach and a trail of blonde hair below his bellybutton, and pink nipples standing up from the contrast of cold butterbeer and the stifling day. Hair slicked back and muscles sliding beneath pale skin, gray eyes closed and head thrown back..._ Harry breathed, quick and soft, and his heart pumped loudly enough in his chest that the other boy surely could hear it, because Harry could surely feel it, every part of his body throbbed in the hot rhythm of it. 

In this state of mind, everything seems so much more sensual and deliberate. The press of thigh against thigh; the cool breathing and the slight odour of sweat from the boy next to him; the ice of butterbeer at the back of his throat. Nearly involuntarily, he made a quiet, breathy moan and shifted his position on the grimy wooden floor. Some time ago, he had stopped caring what the other boy would think. Things became much more immediate and torturous and his mind couldn't wrap completely around the idea of _future_ consequences. Only now. Now. 

Now, there was something warm and soft pressing against the crotch of his pants. His slitted eyes closed and he let out a shuddering gasp. 

The hot air around his ear suddenly become hotter as a voice whispered to him. "Potter," the voice said, the hand–yes, it was a hand–pressing down again. Harry whimpered, still not daring to open his eyes. "Do you–" squeeze, "–like this?" There was a tug at the waistband of his trousers. _Drawstring_, his brain pointed out helpfully. _There are two hands._

Harry moaned louder as fingers, cooled from holding the drink, slid over his hot skin–first up his stomach, and then down, pushing fabric lower, and lower... 

Harry's eyes shot open. "Malfoy!" Brain working again? "What are you–" Not quite. His voice broke as the cool fingers touched the burning flesh of his erection. Molten heat met icy cold in a rush of blood. Harry clenched his toes and the muscles in his thighs tightened. 

Draco closed his hand around Harry's erection, and began moving his hand, squeezing and rubbing. _Not so bad_, Draco thought. _Almost like jacking off._ But as Draco watched the ecstasy that crossed Harry's face, and felt the utter control he had over the other boy, he realised how different it was. Different... and better. 

He saw Harry's hand clenching against the dusty floor, as his other hand reached up desperately, clawing at Draco's arm. Draco rubbed in new-found rhythm and watched as waves of pleasure rolled across Harry's face like ripples in boiling water. His expressions reminded Draco of someone in intense pain. Was this what he himself looked like at times when he was this close? Somehow, Draco didn't mind that he was pleasuring his sworn rival. In fact, this simply proved that Draco was in control. And control was something that Draco knew how to appreciate. His hand, now moist from sweat and pre-cum, slowed, and he revelled in the desperate look of panic on Harry's face. 

"Ah... Malfoy..." Harry managed to gasp out. "Don't–" Draco's hand slowed even more. "Please!" Harry's clawing hand closed around Draco's upper arm, pushing down ineffectually. 

"Ah, ah, Potter," Draco cooed, leaning in to whisper once more. He paused and took a heady breath of the air around Harry. Sweat, mingled with the scent of arousal. Draco smiled languidly. "I asked you, Potter," he said slowly, "if you liked this." He squeezed his hand tighter now, until Harry whimpered loudly, then nodded, his eyes frantically searching the blonde boy's face. 

"Yes!" he nearly shouted. "Merlin, yes." 

With a nod that deemed the answer acceptable, Draco placed his full attention on Harry's erect penis, working him with one no-longer-cool hand. As far gone as Harry was, it only took Draco a few more moments of his ministrations to push the Gryffindor over the brink. 

As Harry floated in the aftermath, Draco withdrew his hand from under the waistband of Harry's quidditch trousers, and examined it. _Looks the same_, he thought absently, then wiped his hand on one leg of Harry's pants. Harry didn't seem to care much. He was slumped against the wall, breathing quickly. It was actually quite a sight, Draco thought. He briefly wished he had his wizard's camera with him to capture the swift rise and fall of chest, the drop of sweat shivering on one unruly, and soaked, lock of hair. The almost-romantic desire ceased when Harry pulled himself together and opened his eyes. Exhausted as they were, they were the eyes of his rival. Perhaps it would not be a good idea to reveal his own–increasingly distracting–pleasure in what had just occurred. 

Draco stood and Harry looked up at him with another new expression. Draco concentrated, and spread his familiar smirk across his face. "Magic hands, Potter," he said. Blinking slowly, he whispered, "You owe me one," and returned back to the bucket of soapy water across the shed. 


End file.
